Dirt
by Ninnik Nishukan
Summary: "You know she treats you like dirt, right?" Bianca/Wilshire.


**Dirt**

Ninnik Nishukan

* * *

**Author's notes:** 2013 was the year I went officially insane and started writing fanfic for _Beverly Hills Teens_, a corny show with cheap animation and lazy writing. It was cancelled after only one (inexplicably long) season in 1987 – and obviously has no fandom.

So…this is the fic that absolutely nobody wanted and nobody asked for. Except me. Bianca/Wilshire is so canon and _so messed up_ that I just couldn't _not_ write it. Apparently. They, and especially the antagonistic Bianca, are the main reason to watch the show – besides the 80's nostalgia, the insane made-up cartoon tech, and the occasionally witty mocking of a certain level of overprivileged people.

* * *

"You know she treats you like dirt, right?" murmurs Troy under his breath as they watch Bianca walk away in a temper.

Wilshire bought the wrong brand of dog collar for Empress, and Bianca really let him have it – including the collar, which she threw in his face— right in front of everybody.

"Even though I kept the receipt just in case and everything…" sighs Wilshire.

"But you know, right?" Troy insists, voice still low and discrete.

Wilshire hesitates. "…I guess."

* * *

"So what's the dirt on you and Bianca, anyway?" asks Switchboard.

Wilshire doesn't usually sweat much, even though he's a big guy who's forced to do heavy lifting almost every single day.

Now he can feel it, though, cold and prickly, on his forehead, on the back of his neck, and in his armpits.

The girl is nearly pushing the microphone into his cheek, she's so eager.

"Um…" Wilshire swallows, not used to the limelight. It's not often that people want his opinion. "N-no comment."

"Aww, c'mon, Wilshire— don't leave the public hanging!"

"Wh-who exactly are the public? And wh-why are you so interested in me and Bianca all of a sudden, anyway?"

Switchboard covers the mic with her hand, shrugs. "Eh, it's a slow news day. It happens." She gives a surreptitious glance, scanning the poolside before peering at him. "Besides, I've always kinda wondered."

His gaze drops, his shoulders hunching. "Look, why don't you ask Bianca?" he mumbles. "If anybody knows, it's her. She's the one calling all the shots."

"Oh, I already did."

Wilshire looks up, eyes wide, heart pounding. "Wh-wha— you did? What did she _say_?"

Switchboard clears her throat. "She said, and I quote: You get that microphone _away_ from me, Brenda McTech, or I'll wrap the chord around your _neck_!" She shakes her head. "Real _friendly_, right?"

Wilshire's shoulders slump in a mixture of relief and disappointment. "Well…it's Bianca. What did you expect?"

Sighing, she switches off the mic. "Yeah, I guess you've got a point, but I _do_ have my journalistic integri—"

"Probably serves you right for asking, anyway."

Switchboard arches a brow. "Is that right? Yeah, I suppose I shouldn't upset the Mistress of the Dungeon."

He blinks. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, nothing…only that I've been wondering if maybe you're not actually more into S&M than M&Ms, Slave Boy," she smirks, poking his stomach before wanders off in search of a new interview subject.

Wilshire can feel his face turning hot as he wonders if this particular thought has crossed anybody else's mind as well.

* * *

"Thanks for helping me out, Wilshire," Shanelle says warmly.

"No problem, Shanelle!" Wilshire replies with a broad smile. Then the smile drops. "Uhm, sorry I ripped your first banner for the dance, though…"

Shanelle waves a hand, tries not to cringe. "That's fine. You apologized and helped me make a new one to hang up, right?"

Wilshire looks down sheepishly. "I guess…"

"I know I was a little annoyed at first, but…it's okay to make mistakes as long as you do your best to fix them, Wilshire," she says, patting his shoulder briefly.

"Bianca doesn't seem to think so. She wants everything to be perfect on the first go."

"Uh-huh?" Shanelle tries not to roll her eyes. "Well, even Bianca Dupree can't be perfect all the time."

Wilshire's smile turns fond. "Oh, I don't know about that…" he objects loyally.

"I'm guessing you've heard she's going to the dance with Gig, though…?"

His smile fades. "Yeah…I heard."

Her hand goes to her hip. "And yet you're here, helping with the decorations."

"It's everybody's dance…not just mine. And as the class president and all, I know you have a lot to do." He gives a slow shrug. "Besides…Gig's playing, so I doubt he'll have time to dance with her much. That's something. And I suppose Jett won't like it, either. I know how Jett feels, but I wouldn't presume to stop Bianca from doing anything she likes. We're not like Gig and Jett."

For a moment, Shanelle only looks at him. "You know she doesn't deserve you, right?"

At her direct question, she can actually see his cheeks turning red, even as the rest of his face goes paler. "That's exactly what _she_ says," he mutters.

Shanelle feels a stab of pity for the boy. Sure, she's seen him miserable before, but most of the time he's so goofy and positive, almost to the point of obliviousness, that it's quite uncomfortable to listen to him now. "Except…she doesn't mean what I meant by it, huh?"

Wilshire nods slowly. "To be honest, I'm not sure who actually 'deserves' me at all. People seem to only tolerate me up to a certain point."

Drawing a breath, Shanelle puts her hand on his arm. Although lying chafes her, goes against her very nature, honesty isn't always the best policy. "Wilshire…I think I like the second banner better."

Wilshire blinks carefully at her. "You do?"

Shanelle smiles, tries to make it a hundred per cent genuine. "Honest."

No matter how awkward and clumsy he is, Bianca still doesn't deserve him. That part is a hundred per cent true.

* * *

"There you go, Tara," Wilshire says, taking a short bow.

Tara smiles as she enters the door he's holding open for her. "Why, Wilshire Brentwood! I do declare! Aren't you just the perfect gentleman?"

Wilshire blushes. "Am I?"

"Why, sure! You even carried my ever so heavy bags inside! I don't know how to thank you!"

"Aww, that's nothing…don't worry about it. I'm used to heavy lifting."

Tara fans herself with her hand; wishes she didn't forget her actual fan at home. "Well, look at you! Sweeter than a magnolia in May, and built like a linebacker to boot!"

"Gee, thanks, Tara…you really think so?"

"Certainly. I must admit, that driver's uniform doesn't do much for you, darlin', but…" She dithers, smiling coyly, but then decides it's not too inappropriate. "…well, if it weren't for your utter devotion to Miss Bianca Dupree, I might almost even consider snatching you up for my very own!"

Wilshire gives an embarrassed laugh. "Tara, really, there's no need to flatter me just because I helped you—"

But Tara just shakes her head. "Oh, I mean it. I will never quite understand what y'all see in Miss Dupree, that's all…now thanks again, and don't be a stranger, y'hear?"

Then she walks off, waving a dainty hand as she goes.

Wilshire sighs. Tara is a wonderful girl, but the only thing he can focus on is how much he wishes Bianca had been there to overhear the conversation. A vote of confidence in a sea of her complaints about him as a potential suitor.

* * *

"You know…I just don't understand you," says Pierce, combing his hair as they're standing in the lunch line in the school cafeteria.

Wilshire reluctantly pauses in his dreamy study of Bianca's flawless profile. She's sitting at a table with Larke and Troy, forgetting to eat her lunch as she hangs onto Troy's arm. He wishes she'd eat something. She won't be able to concentrate in math class later.

He turns his head to Pierce. "Hmm?"

Pierce doesn't even look up from his mirror. "Your whole thing with serving people…I mean, _really_…always helping others, and on your feet all day for the Ice Princess to boot…just what are you trying to _prove_, Brentwood?"

Wilshire frowns. "Prove?"

"_I_ say let others work for _you_ for a change, and never compromise yourself – I never do. I let them come to me instead. It never takes people long to realize my superiority. You have to know who you _are_, Wilshire!"

Wilshire holds his tongue. As far as he can recall, Pierce is usually the one to seek people out, not the other way around. Especially when it comes to girls.

Sighing internally, he redirects his attention back to Bianca. Conversations with Pierce are usually pretty one-sided, anyway, and don't require much from him.

"Wilshire! Wilshire, are you even _listening_ to me?"

"Huh?"

"Oh, _as_ I suspected…Bianca-watching again, are we?" Pierce drawls. "Why don't you just purchase a pair of opera glasses and be done with it, hmm? Honestly, man, have some self-respect! You _do_ know you humiliate yourself in front of her, right?"

Again, Wilshire says nothing. Pierce routinely humiliates himself with girls, after all. He's not one to talk. The only difference is that Pierce's objects of affection seem to change every five minutes, whereas Wilshire stays the course. Sometimes, Wilshire wonders if this makes him noble or just plain insane. Isn't that the definition of insanity, anyway? Trying the same thing over and over and expecting different results?

Pierce clucks his tongue; sends Wilshire a pitying glance before returning his attention to his own reflection. "You're aware that you're basically just banging your fat head against a brick wall, right?"

Then again, Wilshire wonders, eyes never leaving Bianca's face, it's not like he _does_ expect different results, is it? Some days, he's pretty much already given up from the start. Most of the time, he just wants to be near her. He knows that's all he can ever hope for.

But then there are those other days, those rare days, when she seems to be temporarily insane herself. When she throws him a kind word or a smile, or even goes as far as to hug or kiss him.

He might say those days pull him back in, but that's not true. After all, he's never been out. He's a consistent kind of guy.

"Wilshire!"

"What? Oh! Yeah…head against a brick wall…I know…" he mumbles. "Hey, um, could you pass me the caviar?"

* * *

"Wilshire!"

"Huh? Oh…hi, Bianca."

"_Hi_? What are you doing here, still stuffing your face? Class is about to start!"

It's not until now that he notices the lunch hall is nearly empty. Wilshire bows his head. "I can't help it…I eat when I'm nervous."

An impatient scoff escapes her. "Whatever! You promised to carry my book bag upstairs, remember?"

Wilshire's brows knit. "I remember. You just…go ahead. I'll be right there."

Bianca actually pauses, then, instead of yelling some more. His voice seems even smaller than usual to her. "What…what exactly do you have to be _nervous_ about, anyway?"

For a beat or two, he doesn't answer her, merely scrapes his silver spoon along the bottom of the china bowl full of what's supposed to be a delicious tropical fruit salad. It tasted like sawdust in his mouth.

"Everybody seems to…have an opinion about me."

Bianca's finely sculpted eyebrow arches. "Oh? So you're not as anonymous and unimportant as I thought?"

Wilshire fidgets with the spoon again, tapping it dully against the bowl for a moment. "You and me, I mean," he says, his gaze sliding up to meet hers, then dropping back down. "Opinions about me, about you, about what we think about each other…mainly what you think of me…and how you treat me."

Bianca's hands go to her hips. "_Who's_ got an opinion?"

"Like I said…more or less everybody."

"Is it Larke? She's always trying to keep me from Troy—"

"Bianca!" Wilshire is suddenly upright and exasperated. His chair makes a loud complaint of a noise against the floor as he pushes it back. "Please! This is very confusing for me!"

"Oh, this is about what Switchboard said last week, isn't it? Her and her so-called _slow newsday_!"

"No, it's not just—"

Then she gasps, her scowl sharpening. "Don't tell me _you_ dished the dirt! Don't tell me _that's_ why everybody's talking!"

"No! I told her 'no comment'!"

Bianca brightens slightly. "Well…good! Because there isn't even any dirt to dish! But—"

"Bianca!"

"_What_?" she demands, finally objecting to the uncharacteristic loudness and force of him.

His frustrated courage abandons him then, leaving only behind apprehension. "Do you…do _you_ think I should like you?"

She blinks rapidly at him, brows drawing together with confused impatience. "What are you _talking_ about?"

Wilshire swallows, his thoughts drifting to the time, at age six, when he decided to start his first swimming lesson by jumping into the deep end of the pool. "I, uh…well, you see…"

"Well, spit it out! Class is about to start, we don't have all day!"

Wilshire wilts back. The words just aren't there. He should have taken more time to _think_, before breaching the subject. "I don't…never mind."

Something about his voice makes her hesitate again. He sounds even more dejected than usual, and his face has gone pale.

Shuffling out of the room with her book bag slung across his shoulder, he leaves her standing there.

By the time she's reached the classroom, her stomach has started churning.

* * *

Three days later, his stomach hurts. He can't stop eating.

Not that it matters, he supposes. Bianca hardly ever looks at him. Not properly.

At lunch today, he had to finally force himself to put down his fork and stick to water the rest of the meal. He's already put on three pounds.

He's on his way home to drop off Bianca's dry cleaning, which he has to deliver to the cleaner's early next morning before he picks Bianca up for school. Bianca's waiting in the limo for him to drive her home.

Just as he's walking up his driveway, he hears somebody calling him.

"Wilshire?"

Surprised, he looks up. He's so tired and is walking so slouched that he didn't even notice that it wasn't the butler opening the front door, but his parents.

"Wilshire!" exclaims his mother, "I hardly recognized you! What's going on?"

"Are you wearing a common chauffeur's uniform?" His father demands. "And are my eyes deceiving me, or are you carrying someone's dry cleaning bags?"

Wilshire's shoulders slump even further. "I swear there's a good explanation for this…"

"Ah. Ah, I see," says Mom, her tone milder than Dad's. "You were attending a humorously themed costume party, perhaps? A carnival? Servants switching places with their masters, that sort of thing?"

"Uhm…no…no, not exactly…"

"No? Then what on Earth could be the explanation?" Mom gasps as she studies him further. "And you're covered in dirt to the knee! And your sleeve is torn! What exactly _have_ you been _doing_?"

"Empress ran off and crawled under some bushes, and I had to— never mind, i-it's not important." He quickly interrupts himself when he sees their vaguely horrified expressions; they don't know Bianca's dog, so they're probably wondering what an empress was doing crawling under a bush or something.

Suddenly, he feels more tired than ever. Suddenly, he can't provide that 'good explanation' after all. "Mom…Dad…I don't really…let's just say it's complicated, all right?"

"Wilshire," says Dad, putting on his best consoling voice, "you've always been a good son, and we're not _unreasonable_. If you've gotten yourself into some sort of debt or some kind of trouble, don't be afraid to tell us. We'll help you out. You don't have to be anybody's servant."

Wilshire hangs his head. "But I do. I do have to. And I don't know how to explain it. You wouldn't understand."

"Wilshire," starts Mom, getting worried now, "exactly how_ long_ has this been going on?"

"Um…for about a year now?"

"A year! Please don't tell us you've been going around in public in that…in that _outfit_!"

"With other people's _dry cleaning_ on your arm?" Dad chimes in, angrily snatching the bags from Wilshire's arms and brandishing them like exhibit A through C. "And don't tell me you've been walking dogs or carrying shopping, too, because—"

Wilshire looks down, kicking slightly at the gravel.

"Wilshire! Think of the family name!" Dad continues, getting stern. "Have some pride! You're a Brentwood! You're nobody's servant! Think of what it would do to our reputation!"

"I agree! This is shameful!" Mom scolds, grabbing the dry cleaning from Dad and dumping it on the chaise longue in the hall before spinning around and pointing an accusing finger at her son. "And how could this have been going on for a _year_, yet you never said—"

"You'd have known a long time ago if you were ever actually _home_," Wilshire mumbles, not looking at them.

"Wilshire! Don't be ungrateful!" Dad barks. "You _know_ how hard your mother and I work at our charities and the family businesses! And you, almost a grown man—"

"Do you _know_," a cold voice rings out suddenly, "who I _am_?"

Wilshire's parents look up, refocusing their startled gazes.

It's Bianca, getting out of the car and pulling herself up regally.

Wilshire's eyes widen considerably as he hears rapid, decisive footsteps on the gravel path. The pebbles are digging into the soles of her designer pumps, ruining them, and she doesn't even seem to notice.

Wilshire's father clears his throat loudly. "Look here, young lady, I don't know who you think you are, but—"

"That's exactly the point!" Bianca snaps. "I hardly think you _do_ know who I am, or you wouldn't be speaking to me in that manner!"

Wilshire's mother frowns. "Now _wait_ just a _minute_—"

"I am Bianca Dupree," Bianca interrupts sharply, "my family owns Texas, a good portion of Beverly Hills, and a great deal more— as I'm sure you know, if you would only stop to think for a minute! You think you're rich, but let me tell you this— my family could buy and sell your family twice over!"

Wilshire glances at his parents. They've gone pale now. If it's from offended anger or because they've just remembered they have business dealings with the Duprees that they can't afford to jeopardize, Wilshire doesn't know.

Then Mom draws herself up, not unlike Bianca did earlier. "Yes, well, if perhaps you'd like to get to the point sometime _today_—"

"My _point_ is that it's an _honor_ to be my chauffeur! There are plenty of people who would _pay_ for the privilege, and I let your son do the job for _free_!"

Wilshire can't recall seeing anybody queuing up to drive Bianca around without a salary, but he has to admire the sheer nerve of her.

Dad splutters, apparently too outraged to say anything coherent.

"And you know what? He's right! What business is it of _yours_ to suddenly swoop in and take an interest in his life, only whenever it suits you?" Her silk glove-encased finger stabs the air in front of them in accusation. "If he's doing things with his spare time that you don't approve of, then blame _yourselves_, don't yell at _him_! It just means that you're terrible at parenting! It means you're never there! He's been my chauffeur for ages, day in and day out, yet you never noticed! You _think_ about that!"

Tossing her long, dark hair, Bianca spins around and glides back across the path. How she maneuvers the uneven ground so gracefully in four inch heels is a mystery to Wilshire.

"Come along, Wilshire!" she calls as she slips into her car seat.

Wilshire looks back at his parents, his heart thudding in his chest. Then he turns and runs, scared he'll lose the nerve if he even so much as tries to utter a single syllable.

* * *

When they're back on the road, headed to her house, his rapid heartbeat finally starts to return to normal. He inhales and exhales, his shoulders lowering further with relief as he gets a whiff of her familiar perfume. If not for her intervention, he might've been grounded for weeks, and what with summer coming up soon, he wouldn't even be able to see her at _school_. Truly a fate worse than death.

"Thank you, Bianca," he murmurs shyly, glancing back at her.

Bianca gives him a long, unreadable stare in the rear-view mirror. Then she looks away. "You're not allowed to quit, even if they say so. Ever. _I'm_ the one who decides when you leave."

Other people might've objected to this, he knows that. Objected to being ordered around, objected to such presumption. But he isn't other people, and other people don't know Bianca. He knows what she's really saying— and besides, his desires might also be different than other people's. Now he can feel his chest swelling, his throat tightening, warmth spreading throughout his entire being. He wants to shout with joy.

Instead, he clears his throat gently. "That's good," he says, his voice thick, "because I won't ever want to leave."

Bianca's glare is reflected in the mirror. "Don't get schmaltzy with me, Wilshire, you _know_ I can't stand it!"

Wilshire sends her an apologetic look across his shoulder, but his sigh is quite happy as he drives on.

"Sorry, my darling!"

* * *

The second the limousine comes to a halt in front of her mansion, his stomach growls loudly, as if it was waiting for the opportunity.

"Hungry?" Bianca asks, with a significant amount of sarcasm.

"Uh, well…what with all the errands you sent me to do this afternoon and evening, I didn't really have time to grab any dinner."

"Probably just as well, considering how you _stuffed_ yourself at lunch."

Wilshire sends her a sheepish grin as his stomach growls again, and rushes out of the car to open the door for her.

It's still early enough that the butler hasn't gone to bed yet, but he looks somewhat impatient as he holds the door open for Miss Dupree.

When she's entered her home, Wilshire's still hovering outside the door. It's what he nearly always does. A few steps behind her, at a respectful yet hopeful distance.

"Do you need anything else?" he asks, and she can't help but think that this should be the butler's line, not his. Most days, she has trouble figuring out whether she enjoys him remaining so pitiful, or whether it annoys her.

His unfashionably large stomach makes itself audibly known again, and she tuts. "If anybody needs anything right now, it sounds like it's you."

"Oh. Um, I wouldn't want to be a bother…" he mumbles.

"Since when are you _ever_ modest when it comes to food?" she remarks, elegantly sweeping the train of her gown around as she crosses the large entrance hall, fully expecting him to follow. "And you've always been a bother. Too late to stop now."

Behind her, he gives a nervous little laugh.

* * *

"Well? Go on, help yourself." Her hand gestures in a lazy, elegant arch towards the tall, well-stocked refrigerator. "_I'm_ certainly not going to do it _for_ you."

Suddenly, his usual buttery cheerfulness seems to have bounced back. "Don't mind if I do!"

Watching him raid her luxurious fridge is as oddly satisfying as it is unappealing. On the one hand, the slob definitely has a habit of eating way too much, but on the other…the return of his appetite means that somehow, she's managed to fix something.

There's no more pale face or tiny voice.

Bianca could just go to bed now; ask him to show himself out when he's done. It wouldn't be the first time, after all. He even has a personal set of keys. She gave it to him last year, out of necessity. It enables him to enter the garage to fetch the limo, and get into the house to pick up any kind of thing she might need at a moment's notice. Or just in case she ever loses her own keys, which would be a problem if the help aren't home (especially considering her parents almost never are).

Wilshire, of course, lost his head as usual, interpreting it as some kind of declaration of trust and intimacy, instead of the practical maneuver she'd intended.

The silly boy even offered her a copy of the keys to his own house, as if they were exchanging gifts or something. She refused, of course, but in retrospect, she sort of regretted it. After all, you never knew when you needed power over someone.

Then again, if she acquires any more power over Wilshire than she already has, he would quite literally be her slave, which is unfortunately illegal.

So…yes. She could just go to bed. Leave him to his meal. He will probably even do the dishes before he goes.

But it's still fairly early, and she needs to…double check her appointment book for tomorrow.

Which she could of course do up in her bedroom, but…still.

As she sits down across from him at the kitchen table, which is a hefty polished marble piece, but always seems to her as uncharacteristically small and cozy compared to the rest of the house, she tries not to contemplate the unanswered questions in her head.

Things have happened today. Things have been going on. People have been asking things about them. She's not sure she wants to know for how long.

Twirling her pen in her hand, she scans her leather-bound appointment book. She can feel him studying her face with much the same excitement she studies a particularly exquisite piece of jewelry.

Wilshire has been diligently working his way through the scavenged leftovers of cold pheasant, charlotte potatoes and juniper berries, but the moment she sat down, his fork sagged in his hand, warmth blooming in every bone in his body. "Oh, Bianca, I swear…you're my hero! The way you stood up to my parents for me— wow!"

Bianca clucks her tongue. "I merely told them who I was."

"Still! It was great! I mean— the looks on their faces!" he enthuses, chuckling. "Of course, it wasn't exactly the way I'd pictured you meeting my parents for the first time, but I guess I can't have everything."

The natural color drains from her face, visible even behind her thousand-dollar foundation. "I don't want any part of your crazy fantasies, Wilshire. And don't talk with your mouth full. And would it _kill_ you to use a _napkin_?"

Embarrassed, he snatches a napkin from the silver holder on the table, then fixes his gaze to the cold pheasant as he dabs at his mouth. "Sorry." For a moment, he picks absentmindedly at his food while Bianca writes in her appointment book. "I don't know if I want to go back there," he mutters, then. "What if they yell at me?"

Bianca scoffs. "What do you mean, 'if'?"

"What if they kick me out?"

"They'll probably kick you back _in_ after a day or two."

Wilshire sits up from his slump, his fork dropping from his hand and clattering on to his plate. "Oh, my gosh! What if they _disown_ me?"

For a moment, Bianca feels positively faint at the very thought of being disowned, but then she shakes herself, and sighs. This is probably a terrible idea, but he's always…_there_, and besides…having been the victim of distasteful pranks meant to teach her a lesson, she knows what it feels like to believe she might lose her entire fortune. "Well…in that case…I suppose you've already got a job, don't you? All you need is a paycheck."

He stares at her, mouth open. "R-really? You'd do that for me?"

She shrugs, flips her hair. "Whatever. It's not like I can't afford it."

He wants to gush, make an impassioned speech about how much her suggestion means to him, but for once, he keeps his mouth shut. He's stunned that she's basically just offered to take care of him, but as with most things she says to him that almost seem like kindness, it was delivered in a casual, nearly careless tone.

It occurs to him that if he goes over the top like usual, she might reconsider and withdraw her generosity. That's the thing about Bianca. He never quite knows how sincere she is when it comes to these things, or how long they will last if he's not careful. She definitely won't appreciate it if he interprets this as some kind of declaration of love.

So he just concentrates on finishing his belated dinner, trying to ignore the warm, fizzy feeling in his chest. It's hard, goes against all he is, but he _will not_ ruin this. For once. "Thanks, Bianca," he says quietly, not even daring to meet her eyes.

Bianca blinks at him. She expected him to make a big deal out of it; had practically been gritting her teeth already, in preparation of his silly, saccharine spiel.

Met instead with silence, she stumbles mentally. This isn't their normal rhythm. It forces her to think.

"Wilshire…" Her voice is unfamiliarly small. "What was that you said yesterday? About everybody talking about us?"

He bows his head, his eyes tightly shut. Again, she's spun him around. Distracted as he was by the evening's turn of events, he almost forgot about the local gossip. Besides, when does she ever refer back to anything he's told her, actually asking him earnest questions about it? How many more times is she going to surprise him tonight?

"They're all saying…or at least that seems to be the underlying theme…that I should just forget about you. That I should stop working and slaving for you. That you treat me like dirt. That I shouldn't like you. But I do. But you don't. And they keep saying…" He bites his lip, releases it. Things were going so well now that the conversation he wanted so desperately to have earlier today suddenly seems painful and unnecessary. But her wish is his command. "I wish they'd just stop making me overthink everything. I mean, I didn't mind the abuse, I was happy with the way things were…at least I think I was. To be honest, I don't even know what to think anymore…"

For a moment, Bianca can only stare fixedly at her meticulous manicure, trying not to wring her hands as she processes the new information. Finally, she clears her throat in a delicate manner. "So they think you should quit?"

Wilshire won't look at her. "Um…yeah."

"And who are _they_?"

"I'd rather not say—"

Her thin veneer of patience disintegrates. "Wilshire!"

"W-well, my parents—"

"I _know_ that! Who else?"

"Uhm…Switchboard, Shanelle, Pierce, Tara— and— and, uh, Troy."

"Troy?" Her voice has turned abruptly reedy.

"Uh…yes?"

"_Troy _said that? He thinks I treat you like dirt?"

He hesitates, hating the way Troy's opinions can affect her. "That's…pretty much how he expressed it, yeah. Sorry."

For a moment, Bianca only sits there, gazing through him, at some point a thousand miles away. "Well," she begins weakly, "it makes sense, doesn't it? He's probably misunderstood our, uh, relationship, and probably thinks you're in the way somehow. And then, if he gets you to leave, he can—"

Wilshire's heart clenches in a sudden jolt of desperation and panic. She can't be. She's not. Why isn't she listening?

Swallowing heavily, he forces himself to take action. "Tara…actually, Tara told me…a couple of days ago, Tara told me that if it wasn't for my feelings for you, she might want to go out with me."

Bianca's thousand mile stare breaks, and all of sudden, she's back in the present, focusing on him sharply. "What are you telling _me_ for?"

"I was just w-wondering if maybe…if that meant something to you." He glances hopefully at her. "Anything at all?"

"Why should it?" Bianca asks absent-mindedly, getting up to rummage through one of the fine mahogany cupboards behind her. "Wilshire, hand me my lunchbox."

His stomach knotting with nerves, Wilshire stands up and opens the fridge to gingerly hand her the silver-plated, dainty lunchbox that the butler prepares for her most evenings, holding it open for her as she places something from the cupboard into it.

Still waiting nervously for her answer, it takes him a second or two to register what she's put in the lunchbox. "Uh, Bianca? What do you need all this Belgian chocolate Ex-lax for? Are you not feeling well?"

Bianca blinks. "What Ex-lax?"

Wilshire frowns. "The Ex-lax you just packed for lunch?"

Bianca stares blankly down into the lunchbox. "Did I?"

His shoulders droop, then. "Don't tell me you're going to put it in someone's food tomorrow?"

Bianca's expression turns into a sort of uncomfortable grimace. "Uh…"

"You _are_! Oh, Bianca, that's terrible! Who? Who are you going to—?" He stops, a flash of surprised realization hitting him. "It's not for Tara, is it?"

Bianca freezes up. She did the whole thing without thinking, and especially not about the why of it. Now the _why_ hits her like a punch to the gut.

Oh, god, no.

This cannot be her life.

Wilshire's leaning forward now, his hand resting on the table and his face screwed up with bewildered curiosity. "Bianca? Were you really going to make Tara sick just because…? Just because she might want to date me?"

Suddenly, Bianca doesn't know if she wants to throw up or scream. Carefully, she wraps one arm around her tender stomach, groaning. "Wilshire Brentwood," she presses out thickly, "I don't know _where_ you get your ideas, but—"

But he's beaming now. "Oh, Bianca! That's the kind of thing you usually only do for Troy! You'd really do that because of me? I mean, it's a _terrible_ thing to do, but still— my darling, to think I could provoke in you such anger, such _passion_…!"

"I think I'm going to be _sick_…!"

"Such— huh? Sick?" He reaches out for her, concerned. "You didn't eat any of the Ex-lax, did you?"

She immediately shakes his hand off her arm. "Of _course_ not, you imbecile!"

"Then what are you…? Are you okay?"

"No! I am _not_ 'okay'! I have, in fact, never been _further from_ okay!"

"Oh. Um…i-is there anything I can do?"

"This is just. Not. Happening."

"What isn't happening?"

"It's your fault! You just keep begging and begging— it's just a fluke!" Her voice turns shrill. "That's what it is! It's a _fluke_!"

Again, he automatically reaches out for her in his worry, but this time he manages to stop himself, lest she bite his arm off. She clearly didn't want the attention. "What's…? Bianca, did I do something wrong?"

"Everything! _Always_ everything! But that's beside the point!" She throws her hands up. "Just— forget it! It doesn't matter! It's a fluke."

He's been frowning in confusion for a while now, but finally, Wilshire pauses to study her face instead of her words. Unless his eyes are playing tricks on him, it appears that she's actually blushing.

For a moment, he can only stare at her. It's not until she notices, punishing him with a hard, annoyed glare, that he averts his eyes.

"Okay, Bianca. Whatever you say, as always." His smile is soft. "You know what? I think I'm ready to go home now."

"Huh?" She frowns at him. "Go home? But what about your parents?"

"Well, I was…um, I was going to ask if it would be possible for me to stay the night here, but…somehow, I think it'll be okay. I might as well talk to them right away, instead of postponing the inevitable." He gives a weak grin. "Besides, by the time I get home, they've had an hour or two to calm down."

Bianca splutters. "You were actually going to ask to spend the night here? Where in the world— what do you think you're— what kind of presumptions— just because I was considering playing a _teensy_ little prank on Tara— it had nothing to do with you!"

He blinks at her. "Huh? I was just…going to ask if I could sleep in the guest house."

She tries to ignore the way her face is burning. "Oh. So…_not_ in my bedroom?"

His heart is suddenly being squeezed in his chest. "Y-you mean you'd actually _let _me? B-because I'd be content with the foot of the bed, or even just the sofa or the floor—"

Now she can actually feel the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end, mortification and disgusted anger running hot and cold down her spine. "No! Of _course_ I wouldn't let you! And could you _be_ anymore pathetic? The _floor_? Seriously?"

Wilshire sighs, his cheeks flushing slightly pink. "I know, it's just that I suppose I've learned not to get my hopes up. With you, I usually try to aim low."

"You always aim low, no matter what you're doing," she retorts, on autopilot. She almost regrets it, but it seems he takes it for what it was; lets it roll off of him.

"Well, not always…sometimes I do get carried away." He moves slowly towards the door. "Anyway, I guess I should be heading home. I think I may have left your dry cleaning there."

"What? Wilshire!" She stomps her foot. "I needed that by tomorrow evening!"

"Don't worry, I'll have it ready." He's at the kitchen entrance. It wouldn't be the first time he's used it, even if his parents would probably be mortified if they knew. This time, however, Bianca is getting up from her chair to sort of…stand there, uncertainly, as if waiting for something. Usually, she barely even looks up when he leaves for the day.

It makes his head fill up some of the most hopeful thoughts he's ever had. Considering how most of his wishes end up being stubbed out like so many dying cigarettes under size five Jimmy Choo heels, hope tends to scare him as much as it elates him.

He tries to swallow to rid himself of the knot in his throat, tries to breathe to keep his lungs from feeling like they're being stepped on. Apparently, she feels…something. It could be, like she said, a fluke, but he chooses to be optimistic.

And besides, she _is_ his hero for the evening. She deserves a final bit of attention. He just hopes he hasn't chosen the inappropriate kind.

"Good night, Bianca," he says, sweeping her hand into his and kissing it carefully. Then he beams at her. "And again…thank you so much for your help!"

As he turns to leave, not even daring to see what her reaction is, he's stopped by a hand on his arm.

"Listen, Wilshire, this doesn't mean anything. It's merely for luck. Just so you won't get—" She shudders. "—disowned. After all, I wouldn't even wish that on my worst enemy—" A sweetly evil smile graces her lips for a moment. "Oh, _well_, maybe Larke, but— anyway."

Drawing a breath, she leans forward to finally kiss him where he's always wanted her to; on the lips this time. But just a quick one, just a little peck. It's nothing.

As she catches sight of his awed, almost frightened expression, however, she exhales, drawing back sharply. "No! There's no way! I just can't do it!"

His face falls. "Bianca—"

She's already shoving him out the door. "Good luck or whatever! Just— just go!"

As the door slams shut, he sighs.

Even if he spends the rest of the night wondering what he did wrong with her _this_ time, however, it doesn't take anything away from his ability to convince his parents of his love for Miss Bianca Dupree.

They don't quite get it, but then again, neither does he.

And neither does Bianca, who experiences her first sleepless night since the time she knew she might have to go on stage as Juliet.

She has no idea what to say to him at school tomorrow. Before, she never even considered _needing_ to have anything to say at all.

**The End.**


End file.
